Someone Else's Story
by Puredeadthingy
Summary: Mel is recovering from cosmic amnesia. What exactly did she do with Brice when she thought she was a different person? Why is she not getting better? Why does she want to go back to the site of her last disastrous mission?


When Melanie woke up, there were wilted orchids on her bedside table. They had not been there last night; in fact, she remembered quite clearly that last night she had set down her book (Jodi Picoult, majorly sad) by some scarlet strawberries Reuben had brought for her, turned off the light, and went to sleep. Now the book looked old and battered, as if it had been dropped in the bath one too many times, and stamped on by a family pet; the strawberries black and shrivelled, tiny shrunken heads in a clear plastic box.

They smelled awful, too; the flowers more than the berries. It was the smell that had woken her up. It was about five-forty; too late to get back to sleep and early enough she didn't want to get up yet. Besides, she was recovering; recovering from being Flick, a mad little girl in Illinois who helped out a priest. It was surprising it had taken her this long. Flick should have seemed immediately like a story to her, but Melanie had clung onto her former identity for a long time. One week, maybe two; enough times to provoke her best friends into crying a few times. She regretted that, but it was necessary to get back to being Mel. To see the light again, you had to know just how dark it could get...and in Chicago, the answer was very dark. Very frightening. She could have died there; her body thought it was human, and with the danger she faced every day—but the orchids.

The orchids really did stink; she resettled the duvet over her left shoulder and watched the withered flowers sleepily. They didn't just reek; they glowed—glew? Glowered?—in the half-darkness before the advent of dawn. A sickly green colour, one you wouldn't find in nature. The bad light only just touched the edge of her pillow. Mel had a feeling that if her hair were to touch the light it would instantly turn greasy. She couldn't bring it about herself to care. It was cold, and she was tired, and she wanted to sleep...were the flowers keeping her awake? Was their ghostly gleam filtering through her eyelids and lashes bringing her closer and closer to the shore of wakefulness? That couldn't do. She sat up in bed, shielding her eyes against the glow that seemed to increase in intensity with every moment, and made herself slither out between the warm sheets. Her hospital gown stretched up, and she grimaced as she saw her legs; pale, ice-cream pale, snow-white, because Flick had not tanned in the four months she was not herself. They were patterned with scars, too, ones caught off the pavements or where she docked herself on furniture; scars that were still fading. Her body found it hard to forget its taste of humanity. She slid her feet into her slippers.

Humanity was not a thing to be desired. It hurt in all sorts of ways. Knowing she couldn't die here was such a plus, and the smells here were above anything Flick could have ever imagined, and the stars in the night were beautifully clear whereas in Illinois they would be choked up with fog...yes, she was so lucky to be back to her normal self. She wished she felt it. And instead, she was mooning over the person who had probably left those flowers. The man who had been sent to smother and suppress all memories she had of being in such a good place—sensible, Mel. She reached over for her dressing gown, suddenly feeling the chill winter brought with it wherever it went, even Heaven, and wrapped it around herself. Her body felt obscenely vulnerable where the furry robe touched her—tender like meat, battered over the time she had spent human. She needed sleep. To get rid of the glow meant she would be able to sleep. She tucked her robe tighter around her body, and reached out to throw the flowers into the bin.

"Melanie!"

The cry made her look up, notice a nurse who was hurrying towards her. As if she was being pointed at by men with guns, Mel stepped back, hands held up. The nurse grabbed her tags, murmured something, and gingerly, the flowers began to levitate—straight into the bin. Mel knew they reckoned Brice was still doggedly attached to his mission to ruin her, but somehow she didn't feel the same. What kind of hitman sent you flowers when you were recovering? Brice was not so suavely confident he could do that, as a promise to destroy her later.

The nurse picked the bin up, smiling at Mel, though she seemed a little stressed. "Alright, love, you go back to sleep. It's about four."

"'kay," the girl replied, looking as if she was a wet garment hung from a washing line, all droops and long faces. The nurse turned to go, and felt Mel's next request before the girl said it.

"Leah?"

"Yes, love?"

"Can I...can I go home tomorrow?"

Leah paused, and looked down at the bin she held. There was an odd ringing sort of noise coming from the brass shell. Face lit by the green sickly light, she answered "Maybe." Mel seemed to instinctively understand this was the best she was going to get; she nodded, and walked carefully back to bed. She set her blankets over herself and watched as Leah backed out of the hospital room. The smell stayed with her all through the night, worming and weaving its way through the dreams she had, always ending with two blue eyes opening.

The next day, snow came. It had whistled around the Heavenly City for weeks, occasionally settling on a small group of railings or making a bench unusable until it melted, but during the night it had perhaps finally sensed Brice's presence and let all its flurry out at once in the hope of driving him away. It had snowed hard, and Mel awoke to blinding light coming from the window and a beautiful girl approaching her. A girl bearing gifts of jeans and thick shoes—a girl with curls and huge earrings.

"_Chica,_ come on! The snow will have melted by the time we get you out!"

"Hey, Lola." Her voice was still rusty, unprotected metal having been drenched in bad vibes from her time on the streets of Illinois. But she looked happier at the prospect of snow; Lola noticed how quickly Mel got changed in order to potter out into the snow-covered plaza in front of the hospital, still with her identification bracelet on. The staff waved as they walked through the lobby, and Lola tried not to catch the worried looks on the faces of otherwise unflappable Sanctuary staff, so muted and graceful usually when it came to patients—but Mel was not healing fast enough, and try as she might she couldn't get the sulphuric smell of Mel's hospital room out of her nostrils.

Lola had an idea of how the smell got there, and as Mel remained silent as they plodded through the white streets the idea solidified into a certainty. It was in the way the staff looked frightened, somehow, of what Mel would bring with her, and Mel herself seeming like she was drifting—Brice was back. Not back in the way Lola knew her friend wanted, but he popped in and out of Heaven like a jack-in-the-box, laying stinking flowers, gritty chocolates, cards of burned parchment written out to someone else and commiserating them on some terrible disaster that had befallen them. Probably not on purpose. Probably because Hell didn't have a lot of happy thoughts. And did Brice even mean any of what he said? It might be a ploy, to pull Mel back into being like Flick...

"When's your next mission?" There was Mel, and Lola pulled herself back into reality. She gave her friend a bright smile, and then wished she hadn't answered "Chicago" automatically. Because then Mel put her hand on Lola's arm and asked, very sweetly, if she could come too. Chicago was a bad idea in about twenty languages—it was where Flick had lived, and helped Henry, and where she'd met Brice, and Lola did not want to lose Mel to another voice in her head. At the same time, she couldn't refuse her request. It made sense—and—Brice wouldn't be so stupid as to actually turn up again in the same place, where he knew Mel's friends would be looking after her, would he. Demons had cunning. It was part of what made them demons.

She said yes mainly because snow was settling in Mel's hair and she didn't want her getting sick again.

She didn't regret it, even when Mel looked like she hadn't slept as she turned up later, and when Reuben looked at her with worry in his honey-coloured eyes. Her friend's hospital bracelet still shackled around her pale wrist and hefting too big a pack; and she hopped in the portal, merry as anything. Smile as high as a kite, and snowflakes still meshed in her hair, and they were off. Reuben opened his mouth to speak, and she beat him to it—bright, but artificially bright, like a lightbulb on the point of burnout rather than the summer sun.

"Omigod, I'm so looking forward to this! I totally needed to get out, guys." Her frail hands reached across the small glass box for Lola and Reuben's—they were squeezed, and dropped, and both her friends noticed the peculiar cold in her fingers. Lola avoided Reuben's gaze—the pure angel was likely to be angry in the only way he got angry at the fact they let Mel out. She was plainly not functioning on all cylinders, and...

_What if Brice finds her, the state that she's in?_

_She won't. We'll never let her out of our sight, okay, Sweetpea? She needs to feel normal again. _Lola was bluffing, lying through her teeth. Reuben had never forgotten who he was in the same way she had done—he couldn't spot her lie. It still wasn't good enough for the pure angel, whose jaw rippled as he held his tongue. Mel didn't appear to notice, staring excitedly out of the portal, watching for ice.

"It's a reconnaissance mission," he hazarded to the pale girl, who nodded without much hearing his meaning. Undeterred, the pure angel continued; "We just need to map the suburb, and find out where the most dark energy is coming from." And Melanie nodded again, staring brainlessly out of the portal still. Sharing a look between himself and Lola, the angel reached out to steady his friends as they landed.

"Oh! Snow! Even here!" Mel was laughing, turning around, trying to catch the flakes on her tongue. Her friends watched her dispassionately, and as Mel realised she couldn't touch the snow she spun right into their weary eyes. Her arms fell limply to her sides, and for the first time since she had seen them both together, her cheeks flushed and eyes fell. She apologised. The three fell into step, Mel mindlessly following her friends until they came to a ramshackle bar out of the way. "Ol' Red Eyes," it was called, and though it seemed an unauspicious name for a pub—the three settled down there.

It was difficult to settle Mel down for a while—she was fussing, the pillows weren't comfortable enough, could she just set up another protective circle while they connected to the Link, what street were they starting on again?—but sooner or later they had her held fast by linking fingers, shutting their eyes, and beaming out searching vibes—

_and Mel was a flickering candle in the wind, frighteningly close to being blown out, opposite to the fires that blazed in Lola and Reuben. She drew strength from them for a few minutes, and hoping she'd stay that way, they looked outwards—to asphalt, streets, snow-coated trees and blanketed fire hydrants, looking for dark bruises that writhed over parts of the sidewalk, even more for the skin that cracked open and bled. Lola returned to check the fire, and punched Reuben's arm. The candle had gone out—_

"Mel! Mel?" Reuben's voice was high-pitched, panicky. He broke free of the circle and dove to catch the girl, who by now was drooping like an unwatered daffodil. Lola laid her hand on her forehead, and couldn't feel a fever, but by now her head was full of ugly vibrations that came with sensing dark powers. A huge one—that was heading straight for them—one that no one trainee could face. A circle was drawn, hasty and frantic, and in ten minutes Mel was still lying cold on the floor of the pub they were squatting in, blissfully unaware of how her friends were risking their lives, dreaming of simpler times where she could handle Illinois weirdness, putting it down to being a big city and where her name was Flick.

There was a movement in the darkness, and Mel opened her eyes as the shape solidified. She was protected by a rosy circle of light, that she could see very well, but would it be enough for the person she could see now, fighting their morphic field, coming into her realm of vision—where were Lola and Reuben? Had they been led away by a false signal, or was it this creature that had laid them to waste?

There was a flash of blue.

Melanie sat up a little straighter, still watching the shadow with sharp eyes, spine sticking out, and breathed his name. A reply came from the darkness, as the shadow-shape moved from deep cobweb recesses to the grey half-light of the moon to the final harsh light that shadowed his brilliant blue eyes, the bulb that hung like a dead man from the ceiling.

"One hundred points, sweetheart." His voice was crooked, as was his smile, and the angel knelt up as far as she could in the protective bubble; he crouched down for the same reason. For one moment the two stared at one another, breath locked into their throats, and then one of them broke the silence—

"You don't look good." He reached out to touch her hand, and the angelic electricity must have stung him. He gritted his teeth, and then his pain seemed to ripple away when she put her own palm up.

"I don't feel very good," she admitted, and as she spoke the bubble rippled slightly before bursting. It allowed her to rise up and fall, happily, into Brice's clutches. In his turn, he held her close, looking worriedly at her face.

"What's wrong? I would have thought you'd be better by now," he asked her, patting her dull hair worriedly. Her answer froze him fast; "Your flowers." He immediately let go of her; for her own safety, because he did not want to poison her anymore, because he did not want to destroy her any more than he already had.

"Don't let go?"

"I have to, Fl—Mel, I have to, I can't make you iller..."

"You're not!" She reached up to him, and he backed off—letting her golden waves of vibes roll off him like waves off a rock. "You're not, I'm recovering, I know who I am..."

He shook his head. "My flowers and my chocolate. I delivered them in the dead of night, and you thought you were Flick. You were murmuring about helping Henry out and going to pray in Saint Michael's. Mel, you need to get better soon." He smiled at her, eyes watering only a tiny bit. "So I can come and see you properly." He bent down to kiss her forehead, and jerked back. "You're not well. I need you to get well, Mel, okay?"

The harsh light faded to grey, silver and then to gold; she breathed out a white mist of Flick's memories and took in a fading pastel shade that was all Melanie. There was a flash of spicy orange: Lola, and a comfortable brown—Reuben. Platinum vibes and soothing voices, wrinkled suits and dusty beaches. Mascara and doodads on shampoo bottles and knuckledusters Dance and music in twin ribbons twined around her body like some warped magical girl anime; all the way blue eyes followed her, and not at all about stonework and graves and priesthoods. And then calm whiteness surrounded her, the white that surrounded her when she first arrived in Heaven; she opened her eyes in the Sanctuary, clasping hands with spicy orange girls and cool earth boys. And she spoke out loud.

"I really am ready to go home now. I wasn't before. But I am now. He hasn't left me any orchids."


End file.
